


Brush

by No_Yes_Always



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e03 The Naked Now, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Introspection, Kisses, Possible Character Study, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23340781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/No_Yes_Always/pseuds/No_Yes_Always
Summary: Post The Naked Now and the Tsiolkovsky virus, Data and Tasha ride in the turbolift together.
Relationships: Data/Tasha Yar
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	Brush

_“It never happened.”_

It’s how she gets herself into the turbolift, after six-and-a-half hours of torturous _calm_. 

The tone of his voice had _not_ changed from the way he usually answered the captain, he had not gone at all out of his to avoid her, and, beyond stopping once to explain a new modification to one of the sensors that she had missed entirely, Data hadn’t moved to speak a single word to her. 

At least, the idea seems to have slotted itself neatly into his brain. Or he’s good at pretending that it has, taking an order she doesn’t actually have the authority to give. Does Data’s seeming understanding, even willing calm acceptance of her desire to forget it bring him closer to human, or push him even further away? It would be… _Nice_ if control over human memories could be so convenient. 

Tasha hates being drunk like she hates taking the Beta shift. 

Her memories of him are faded in the exact opposite way to how she can remember Turkana; the wrong things seem to be dimmed, faded out of her short-term memory when before knowing them would have cut like a razor. 

On Turkana, she remembers being coated in filth. Never having her hair clean. The topcoat of grime that had settled like another layer of skin over her, normal before she could have ever thought it was unnatural. 

Touch. She remembers their touch. She can’t remember the feel of being held in her father’s arms, or her mother brushing her hair out of her face; the feeling the first time Ishara wrapped a tiny hand around her finger is lost entirely to her — which finger was it? 

But, _their_ touch- 

Holding her down, the almost soft trailing of rough, calloused fingers and hands across her spine. She’d swear she can still remember the prints, marked on her, part of her skin, like tattoos… Maybe if she knelt in front of them again, looked at them from the same place, she could find them again. 

Possessive caresses against her neck, running over the underside of her jaw, across her throat, vilely bitter from the sweetness inherent to such touch. Touches so seemingly gentle, while they pressed down over her, the entire front line of her coltish frame unnaturally straight against the dirt. 

When she was on her back, they pushed her hair back, away from her face. Tilted her chin up, bringing her eyes back to them, to see it, to _watch_. 

Some of them cradled her limp body, once she had gone still, before turning away to let her slump back against the dirt, or the wall. Shushed her when she started to cry, _wiped away the tears_. 

Protective, paternal, _kind_ things. Because she had been a _child_. 

It was almost better when they just dropped her. 

Tasha remembers those things more clearly than what they were actually doing to her. But she remembers the ache, after, as though the inside of her body had been torn to shreds, pulled back together by someone using a needle and a thread of barbed wire.

* * *

The turbolift passes Deck Five, before Tasha turns at all to properly look at Data again. And he looks back, the embodiment of that terrible, placid _calm_ , though she thinks he’s raising the eyebrow she can’t see. His arms rest firmly at his sides, not clasped at his back as hers are. Her fingers knit tightly together, locking at the knuckles, as she studies his. 

She… She doesn’t remember his _touch_. 

The feel of him, the ecstasy of her completion, those she can recall. Even the looping curve of his smile, as she took his hands in hers and drew him back with her. It’s the last, irrationally, that has her carefully tampering down a flush that has no business rushing over her cheeks _now_. 

Where were his hands, when she straddled his lap? 

She doesn’t know. 

Tasha makes her career out of noticing things, her eye for detail is why she does so well as security chief. But, were they on her back? Did he cup the side of her face, trace over the cheek she knows has gone pink? Does it make any difference? 

Of course she can’t remember those touches; because she _wants_ to. 

Categorizing the details of her sexual experiences on Turkana IV as assault is easy, because it isn’t a _debate_. It's a fact. So, naturally she can only remember parts of it that should have been sweet, loving — the acts of a partner, not an attacker. Not those of an enemy, because she wasn’t allowed to look at it that way. 

That was why they did it. 

She _wants_ that touch from Data, those feelings. They’re hers, she chose them like she chose the partner, and however inebriated she might have been, she _did_ choose him. Data. She wouldn’t have jumped on just anyone coming in. Tasha knows that. She’ll tell herself that, no matter what, because there’s no way in hell she’s going to accept any other explanation. 

His hands have to have been _somewhere_ . She thinks she would have at least noticed if he sat on them the entire time. And she wants to feel them, to remember having felt them. The touch of her partner didn’t scare her, because Data doesn’t scare her. Because he’s different, even to her crewmates aboard the _Enterprise_ . He _won’t_ hurt her. So why the _fuck_ can’t Tasha just keep for herself a memory of the warmth of his hands on her inner thighs, the comfort of being wrapped completely in his arms, even just the brush of his sleek head against the underside of her throat? 

She can’t help herself. She isn’t helping herself. 

_“I think we shall end up with a fine crew. If we avoid temptation."_ And what if they couldn’t avoid temptation? What if it had already come in and settled itself right at him; lying in wait for just such an opportunity? 

Dammit, she had turned towards him _immediately_. 

Had he been looking at her, or at the captain? She thought his head had turned slightly to the right, back to Picard, as hers had come back forward. But was he looking at her, or was he looking, in that way of his, at nothing? Do androids look at the stars? 

If he did that sort of thing, Tasha might even have said that Data had waited for her. They were the last of the bridge crew to filter off, yielding to Gamma. After today, she hates Beta now more than ever before. 

Either way, they’re in the turbolift now, and he watches her politely, his entire body half-turned to her. She’s mirroring him, she realizes. Maybe he’s mirroring her. 

It doesn’t make sense, what she wants from him, suddenly. _Gentleness and joy and love_ , her brain hisses wickedly, and she smoothes out her sudden scowl. He still catches it, his eyes flickering naturally to her lips for the briefest of moments. Does she have any right to expect any of that, from him? (From _anyone?_ ) That gentleness, even the briefest echo; it held her close, dream-like, the entire way down. 

The turbolift opens for her quarters, Deck Ten. She makes no move to exit, and neither does he. Not his deck anyway. He must be on his way to main engineering, to work his way through another shift. Maybe sort through his memories, lose himself in the work. If he does that. If he _can_ do that. 

Kisses are the faintest memory she has of all her sexual experiences. They were… Uncommon, somehow, on Turkana, as though of all the other things they could find to do, a _kiss_ couldn’t come close enough to the kind of intimacy they were going for. Compared to everything else, it wasn’t possessive enough. 

Less of a taint. 

“Tasha?” Data asks. She’s been looking at him for too long, not moving so much as a hair to leave the turbolift. And he looks concerned. Thoughtful. Those bright, keen golden eyes run over her face, her blush, her lips, and he looks- 

And suddenly, she wants one. Very much. 

A kiss. 

So she takes it. Because it’s something she can take, for herself. Reaches out, just like that, hands moving from rending her knuckles white to curl her fingers, possessive, _dammit_ , in the collar of his uniform and jerk him down the few inches to meet her lips, her knuckles grazing over golden skin. Her other arm wraps over his shoulder, around his neck, and holds him closer, crushed against her. 

Data goes stock-still, and she can count one, two excruciating seconds, before he answers. Gives her back the kiss she had thought to take. He’s… Soft. Exactly the kind of gentle caring she had just been lamenting the memory of, but she keeps pulling anyway, drawing him deeper, her lips parting softly and bringing his with them. 

They stay there another moment, their lips locked together, coaxing gently, until finally one of his hands comes to settle at her waist, as her fingers thread through his hair. His thumb moves, only the faintest of caresses, just a brush beneath her ribcage. 

She feels it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have... Feelings about this couple. Possibly more coming, as Star Trek has taken over my existence. 
> 
> Please stay safe, and tell me how you think I did with writing this, my first venture into writing Star Trek? Also, I think I'm safe keeping it rated T, there's nothing really explicit here, only some references, but if you think there's any reason I should change it to M, please feel free to mention that or any additions I should make to the tages. 
> 
> Thank you~


End file.
